I’ve seen him sitting at a small table in that rose and aqua kitchen at the row of windows farthest from the stove coloring in his Peter Pan book while his mother cooks and hums along with Patti Page or The McGuire Sisters.
It was a Zenith Trans-Oceanic, with rows of red-orange push buttons and serial black tuning knobs that said the path to Wonder commenced with a frequency indicator floating like the bubble in a carpenter’s level.
The guitarist is clearly out of his depth, adequate, sure – skilled even – but he isn’t standing on the same earth as the fiddler, and the fiddler isn’t standing on the earth
Bathed in red spotlights, the color of cheap wine, the girl in the print dress smiles. Her voice, high and clear as mountain air, almost unheard in the noisy room.
on the stage of the Ryman after Bobby had played Marie Laveau and That’s How I Got to Memphis and Detroit City and my friend who’s a music manager whispered to me that Bobby Bare was the sweetest man in Nashville and his voice was pitch perfect